Chapter 33 – Tessa
Chapter Thirty-Three
Tessa
“You’re sure you want to do this?” I ask from the bed, where I’m still curled under the top sheet, hair wet, Rowan’s T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. “The doctor said rest.”
“I am resting.” He’s standing in front of the dresser with a pair of slacks on and his shirt hanging open. “I’m skipping the cigars this evening. That’s resting.”
“The doctor just removed your IV not too long ago.”
“And now I’m hungry. Should I not eat and starve myself?”
“Depends. What are you in the mood for? Suffering and smugness? Or actual food.”
He turns just enough to smirk over his shoulder. “For revenge and roasted chicken.”
Heaven help me, I grin.
But even as I tease him, my mind’s stuck on this morning.
I told him everything.
About the gray days. The heaviness. About the way depression crept in like fog—soft, but suffocating. I told him how I disappeared because I couldn’t let the one person who always saw me clearly see me when I didn’t recognize myself.
And he didn’t blink.
He held me like I wasn’t broken.
And somehow, in forty-eight hours of fake dating, bathtub confessions, and shared pillows, I feel closer to him than I ever did back when we were technically together.
“Are you coming?” Rowan asks, dragging me back to the present. “Or are you going to sulk under that sheet like a Grecian widow?”
“I’m not sulking,” I say, slipping out of bed and grabbing the wrap dress I’ve yet to wear. “I’m deciding whether you deserve my company.”
“Excellent. Apply that same rigor to your quinoa.”
I roll my eyes, and we walk Waffles before heading to the main dining room, where everyone is gathered. I spot at least four different salads on the serving table, none of which look fulfilling.
“Ugh,” I groan. “I was hoping for a burger or tacos. I’m tired of bird food.”
Rowan smirks and pulls out my chair. “Just one more day, and then we can stop for the juiciest burger in all of Georgia.”
“That sounds good to me.” I sit and unfold my napkin just as a familiar voice sounds behind me.
“King,” Harris says smoothly, appearing beside our table like he teleported out of thin air. “Mind if we join you?”
Rowan’s jaw flexes. “Of course not.”
He doesn’t ask me.
Because this isn’t a question.
This is a power play.
Harris slides into the seat next to Rowan. Masden takes the one beside me, his elbows already resting on the pristine linen.
I glance at Rowan.
He’s tense.
Not visibly. Not to them. But I see it in the way his hand curls too tightly around his fork.
“Glad to see you’re recovering,” Hale says, glancing pointedly at Rowan’s plate. “Though we were surprised by your absence this morning at breakfast.”
“We needed a slower start,” Rowan replies, voice even but clipped.
“Understandable,” Harris says, folding his hands. “Retreats can be… overstimulating.”
Masden leans forward, just enough to make me stiffen. “Especially when you’re bringing interesting guests.”
Rowan doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t have to.
The silence tightens like a noose.
My grip on my fork slips slightly. The back of my neck prickles. A beat passes. Then another. My stomach begins its slow, familiar twist—the one that says run before you understand why.
“I think what we’re all wondering,” Harris says, too casually, “is what prompted the choice to bring someone who—how shall we say it—has a history of disregarding discretion.”
My breath stutters in my chest. My spine stiffens. Did someone hear something? Did they see my name on a file? But it’s not the present they’re referencing. It’s the past. My past.
Rowan’s head lifts.
“Excuse me?”
Masden folds his napkin like he’s moderating a panel, not accusing someone of career-ending misconduct. “We did some digging, King. Not much—just enough to be informed. After all, when someone isn’t on the recruitment list but still attends every event, it raises questions.”
“She’s here with me,” Rowan says, like a warning shot across the table.
“Yes, well.” Harris’s smile is tight. “That’s precisely the concern.”
Confusion floods in, hot and fast. I blink, trying to track the conversation, but the undercurrent is turning slippery. What the hell is happening? How do they know about the notes?
Then Harris—damn him—tilts his head with mock concern. “Camden brought it to our attention, actually. Last night. After your departure.”
Masden takes over, tag-team style. “He said maybe your personal relationship was interfering with professional judgment. Suggested we take a second look at your guest. For your protection, of course.”
Rowan still hasn’t blinked. His jaw ticks once. “You investigated her. Off hearsay.”
Harris’s hands stay folded. “We made inquiries. It’s standard due diligence.
” He turns his gaze to me now—direct, assessing.
“Ms. Whitmore. There was a disciplinary flag from your time at Havemeyer, wasn’t there?
A confidentiality breach at the student legal clinic?
Notes leaked from a mediation session that impacted a pending settlement? ”
My throat closes.
“I didn’t—” My voice cracks. I swallow and try again. “It wasn’t intentional.”
Rowan blinks, but it’s not a normal blink. It’s slow and surgical, like he’s cataloging everything and calculating who bleeds first.
He leans back in his chair and his eyes flick to Harris. “Did Camden provide the name? Or was that your research?”
Masden clears his throat. “Let’s not escalate—”
“No,” Rowan cuts in. “Let’s. Because if one of you decided to drag my guest’s name through a private investigation without cause or consent, I’d like to know which liability to address first.”
The table goes still.
No one speaks.
I’m still trying to breathe.
I know what they’re talking about. I know exactly what case they found. And how bad it looks. But how the hell did they connect the dots so fast?
And why does Rowan look like he’s about to take the table apart with his bare hands?
“I’d like to know,” Rowan says again, his tone quiet now “which of you decided that my guest was fair game.”
Masden exhales, almost like he’s disappointed in Rowan. “You’re deflecting. That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’m clarifying,” Rowan snaps. “There’s a difference.”
“You’re making this emotional,” Harris murmurs. “That’s what has us concerned.”
“I’m making this personal,” Rowan corrects, leaning forward now, voice venomous.
“Because it is personal. You didn’t vet a candidate.
You went after a woman who isn’t applying, isn’t networking, and isn’t here for anything other than being at my side.
Which means if you have a problem, gentlemen”—his gaze sweeps the table—“you have it with me.”
“Rowan.” Harris lifts a hand like he’s offering peace. “This isn’t meant to be punitive. We simply couldn’t ignore the red flags.”
“Red flags?” I choke. “You make it sound like I forged a federal warrant.”
“No,” Masden says flatly. “You breached confidentiality in a live case.”
I flinch.
Rowan’s eyes go ice white.
“I suggest,” Masden says mildly, “we all take a breath. No one is accusing Ms. Whitmore of anything further. This is merely… a moment of transparency.”
I open my mouth, but Rowan beats me to it.
“You wanted a sanitized image,” he says. “A polished résumé in heels. Instead, you got someone smart, and loyal enough to walk into this lion’s den for me.” He leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “And it terrified you.”
Silence.
Then, “That’s a rather generous spin,” Harris says coolly.
“It’s the correct one,” Rowan replies.
Masden straightens his silverware. “Be that as it may, we now have liability concerns. If you move forward with an offer from this company, and your judgment is clouded—”
“Don’t finish that sentence,” Rowan says, deadly calm.
“Why not?” Harris challenges. “It’s a valid point.”
“Because you’re suggesting that I’d compromise this firm’s integrity over a woman.” He tilts his head, smile razor thin. “Which is ironic, given how often you’ve all done exactly that.”
A beat.
Two.
Even Harris blinks at that one.
Masden sits back, his expression unreadable. “You’ve made your position clear, King.”
“No,” Rowan says. “You have. I just finally believed you.”
And with that, he stands.
Pushes his chair in, and then reaches down and takes my hand, despite the thunder rolling in his expression.
“If you’re going to vet her, do it properly next time. Because the next time you try to blindside her in front of me, I’ll ruin more than your lunch.”
I don’t speak.
Not while we walk through the echoing hall. Not even when Rowan’s thumb grazes the back of my hand once, a silent command to breathe.
I don’t.
I just follow.
Up the stairs.
Down the corridor.
Until the moment our door clicks shut behind us, and then I move.
Fast.
Ripping my hand from his.
Grabbing my suitcase from the corner like it might anchor me before I spin out of orbit.
“No,” Rowan says immediately. “Put that down.”
I don’t.
I lunge for my shoes, adrenaline flooding every cell.
“Tessa.” His voice cuts through the rising hum in my skull. “You’re not leaving.”
I ignore him.
My hands are shaking so badly I can’t even zip the damn bag. It keeps snagging on the liner, on the overstuffed edges of outfits I never should’ve worn, never should’ve accepted.
“This was a mistake,” I choke out, yanking the zipper again. “You should’ve let them expel me. Honestly, it would’ve been cleaner.”
“Stop.” His tone shifts to commanding. “You’re not thinking clearly.”
“No, I’m thinking very clearly,” I say, half laughing, half sobbing. “I’m the cautionary tale, Rowan. I’m the reason they double-check background checks. You brought a walking PR nightmare to a retreat for future partners. You want to talk liability? Congratulations. I’m Exhibit A.”
“You are not—”
“I sat at that table and watched them dissect me like I was an ethics case study.”
“Because you are a threat,” he snaps.
I freeze.
Everything in me stills. Slowly, I turn.
He exhales hard. “Not to them. To me.”
I stare at him.
And then I shake my head. “Don’t do that.”
“Tessa—”
“Don’t spin this. Don’t lawyer your way into pretending this was noble.” My voice is rising now. “They’re going to blacklist you. Or worse: pity you. All because you defended the girl who couldn’t even make it through clinic without detonating her future.”
His jaw tightens. “You really think I care what they think?”
“No,” I say quietly. “I think you care what this firm means. What it represents.”
A pause.
A breath I can’t seem to pull.
“I’m not going to be the reason you lose everything,” I whisper. “Not again.”
I turn back to my bag.
But this time, when I reach for it, he steps in front of me. Physically blocks it.
I try to move around him. He doesn’t budge.
“Move.”
“No.”
“I’m serious, Rowan.”
“So am I.”
I look up, furious, and instantly regret it.
Because his expression isn’t angry.
It’s wrecked.
Just… shattered.
“Every time you run,” he says, voice like gravel, “you make it harder to believe this meant anything to you.”
My throat constricts.
I can’t—gosh, I can’t breathe again.
“You don’t get to do that,” I whisper.
“Why not?”
“Because I’m drowning here, Rowan. This weekend was already humiliating enough, and then they found out my secret. You should have never covered it up.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
I can handle rage. I can handle cruelty.
But not this.
Not guilt.
He steps back, just slightly. Enough that the suitcase is within reach.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
Then, quietly, he says, “You’re not just a favor, Tessa.”
And somehow, that’s the line that undoes me.
Not the threats.
Not the accusations.
That.
Because it sounds like a confession.
A line he’s been swallowing for days, maybe longer. A truth he didn’t mean to say out loud.
And I—
I can’t.
Not right now.
So, I grab the handle anyway.
And when his hand covers mine again, I let it sit there for a second longer than I should.
“If I leave now, you can still salvage this,” I say softly. “You can tell them it was a favor gone too far. That you didn’t know. That I lied to you.”
I make it halfway out the door.
Then I feel his voice, low and taut behind me.
“If you walk out that door, Tessa, don’t pretend it’s for me.”